Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (12 page)

“What does it mean?” he asked, swallowing
hard on the sudden lump in his throat.

The sergeant took his eyes from the horizon and regarded
his young companion with growing concern.

“It means we might be in trouble, lad,” he
whispered through gritted teeth, before returning his attention to
the sky.

The duke was becoming agitated. He had sent out riders
well over an hour ago to scout for the approaching foe, and not one
of them had returned. He hated guessing, but without a steady supply
of information, his tactical prowess counted for nought. The
Patriarch of the Ucléan Brotherhood had offered to scry for
him, but Wellington was uneasy enough about the bargain he made
without capitulating further. Now, forced into making a decision
based solely on local topography and instinct, he turned in his
saddle and beckoned a runner to him.

“Tell the monks to make ready,” he
instructed, watching the junior officer depart in the direction of
the nearest column.

The mist, previously infesting the ground, had now
matured into a substantial fog through which it was difficult to make
out anything more than half a mile away. Above, the stars had
vanished behind a similar curtain of vapour. With the moon obscured,
the valley had become a dark and foreboding place.

Within the confines of the walls of fog, sounds were
reflected back, and the duke could hear the nervous chattering of his
men as if he stood amongst them. He swiveled to his left and
observed his corps of engineers making final preparations to the
artillery.

Congreve had assured him that vast improvements had been
made to the rockets since their first inept deployment during the
Indian campaigns. The colonel had spoken of the addition of something
called a Revenant Sphere to the warhead of each missile. Wellington
did not profess to fully comprehend the inner workings of the device,
having chosen not to get involved in Sir William’s dealings
with the Brotherhood, but he understood it had something to do with
unleashing the souls of the recent dead upon approaching soldiers.

The souls had been harvested from the numerous corpses
littering the surrounding villages by the zealous acolytes of the
Brotherhood. Having already been robbed of their existence by the
French dogs, the duke figured that giving these men and women a
chance at gaining some revenge was the least he could do. Still
though, he preferred the abrupt certainty of a cannonball to all this
mumbo jumbo. That was why he requested Congreve construct his suit of
overlapping armor. If he was going to wade into battle against
Napoleon’s inhuman devils, then he was going to make damn sure
he took the necessary precautions. The only trouble was that the
infernal contraption was so damn heavy! He felt like an accursed
medieval knight in all this get-up, and if the fog bank elected to
come any closer, he would have more to worry about than just the
French.

Thomas near jumped from his skin as a robed figure
strode past him down the line. Quickly recovering his wits, he stared
after the monk and the bucket of red fluid he carried. Beside him,
Foss sniffed the air and made a face.

“Pig’s blood,” he commented flatly,
voicing his disapproval.

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but before he was able
to mutter a word, he felt something sticky and wet being brushed
against his tunic. Turning, he found another hooded man daubing the
front of his uniform with blood, forming three precise strokes into a
pictogram of sorts. Startled, Thomas took a step back from the brush,
but a firm hand on his shoulder prevented him from pulling away
further.

“Steady there, private,” instructed the
surly-looking lieutenant who accompanied the monk. “Duke’s
orders, and all. You just stand easy.”

The stench of the still warm blood was overpowering, and
Thomas wrinkled his nose at the smell. As the monk moved to his
right, Foss turned his head and spat in the dust before stepping
forward and puffing out his chest as a canvas. As the monk carefully
constructed the exact same symbol across his tunic, the sergeant
attempted to peer beneath the man’s cowl, without success. The
hood seemed to contain only darkness where a man’s features
ought to be, and in the anxious gloom, both Foss and his young
companion were loath to lean any closer in to this unnerving figure.

With the second pictogram complete, the lieutenant
cracked an unconvincing smile and patted Thomas across one shoulder.

“Fine job, young man, fine job,” he said
before following in the monk’s wake towards the next group of
soldiers.

“This stuff smells awful,” whispered Thomas,
once the lieutenant was out of earshot. “Can’t we wash it
off, or something?”

Foss said nothing, looking fearful for the first time
that day, as he watched the various groups of monks move amongst the
other columns, enacting the same ceremony on each man. At the edges
of the field, the first sets of monks could be seen returning to
their camps—small knots of threadbare tents, where horned
figures stood stirring vast cauldrons of blood over fires of green
flame.

“Lord preserve us,” muttered Foss beneath
his breath. He quickly made the sign of the cross across his chest.
Where his finger touched the blood though, an angry hiss was heard
and smoke rose from its surface, evidently bringing with it a burning
pain for Foss uttered a grunt of discomfort. The two men exchanged a
glance of horror, and then each stared down at the symbol painted on
his chest wondering what on earth they had gotten themselves into.

The abrupt thunder crack which rolled along the valley
floor was so sudden, that for a moment, the duke believed one of his
cannon had been discharged without permission. The nearby mounts of
his generals whinnied in terror; Marshal Paget almost unseated from
his horse, despite his years of experience and his prosthetic leg
hooked into the stirrups. Wellington’s steed did not startle,
seemingly too concerned with staying on its feet under all the
weight.

The sky continued to rumble but no rain fell as
Wellington’s staff regained control of their horses. The fog
bank, having been immobile for what seemed like an age, now abruptly
began to roll towards them. Wellington reached for his sword.

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” he warned,
sliding the blade from its scabbard and making the sign for his men
to advance, “for we have a date with the devil himself.”

Foss’s rifle gave a dull click as he uncocked and
unloaded it, allowing the ball and powder to slide from the barrel
onto the ground at his feet. Thomas gaped at him, wondering if the
veteran sergeant had lost his head.

“What on earth are you doing?” he pleaded.
“If that lieutenant catches you, he’ll have you flogged.”

“If I live,” Foss muttered, lowering himself
to one knee and rummaging in his pack.

Thomas glanced along the line, thankful there were no
officers close enough to observe the disobedience. Foss gave a brief,
“Ah,” as he located what he was looking for and withdrew
a second pouch of ammunition from his pack, slinging it over one
shoulder as he stood again. He proceeded to re-powder his rifle as
the sky flashed with light and a second crack of thunder came. One of
the younger recruits let out a brief yelp of terror at the sound and
hid behind his comrades. Thomas’ hands were shaking. In the
distance, he could make out the sound of marching boots. The French
were coming.

Foss pulled a gleaming ball of wrapped shot from his
cartridge pouch and deposited it down the barrel. Drawing his ramrod,
he firmly pushed the bullet home and then returned to his original
position of readiness. Thomas looked at him, confused.

“That shot doesn’t look normal. What on
earth have you got in there?”

Foss didn’t look back, carefully cocking his rifle
and stepping forward with the line, the British column beginning to
slowly move forward. Thomas kept pace and prepared his own weapon,
still glancing in confusion at the sergeant.

The step of boots was louder now, the French approaching
through the mist. Thomas could feel his heart pounding in his chest,
his palms slick with sweat. He remembered his brief training—French columns
were thin like a hammerhead, intended to smash open
their enemies position whilst presenting the fewest targets. He
swallowed and prayed for courage.

The fog was everywhere, beginning to wisp its way
amongst the lines like moistened fingers, but still he couldn’t
make out the figures of the French front line. Surely they couldn’t
be far away now. The curtains of cloud above were suddenly drawn
open, as if by invisible hands, illuminating the battlefield with
moonlight. It was then Thomas saw the first malformed figures in the
fog.

The French were not huddled together in the tightly
bound unit he expected. Rather, they were spread out across the
field, as though having stalked through the dark like a pack of
ravenous animals. As the first beams of moonlight fell across the
enemy position, an unearthly scream leapt from the darkness. It was
quickly joined by several more.

Thomas’ blood ran cold at the sound, and he felt
warm piss descend his legs as he trembled uncontrollably. Beside him,
Sergeant Foss swallowed loudly enough for him to hear. Thomas moved
closer to the older man, seeking reassurance. The sound of men
screaming was everywhere, the French soldiers howling and barking
like dogs, accompanied by the terrible sounds of ripping fabric and
flesh. The voices were wrong, though, more guttural and debase than
they should be. Stopping in their tracks, the English lines glanced
fearfully amongst themselves and looked as though they might turn
back. Before they could move, under command from Wellington himself,
the lead officers bellowed for the men to stand their ground.

“What’s in that rifle, Fossy?” Thomas
asked again, his voice that of a frightened small boy.

Foss drew up his rifle and tenderly kissed the tip of
the barrel for luck.

“Silver,” he replied, “and you just be
glad I have it when they come, lad.”

The first Hussar stepped hungrily from the fog and stood
before the British line, his sides panting with exertion. What
remained of the man’s uniform hung in tangled strips about his
shoulders, and beneath, a mass of coarse black hair covered his
entire body. The musket in his hand was inverted and he brandished it
like a club, stepping forward and snarling at his enemy.

“Holy mother of God,” Thomas managed to
murmur before the lead officer gave the order to fire.

A vast barrage of lead spat out towards the French
soldier, peppering his fur-covered body with multiple shots and
filling the space between the lines with thick smoke. For a moment,
everyone held their breath, listening for the quiet thud of a body
hitting the ground. Then, as the smoke blew clear and the soldiers
glimpsed the fallen Hussar lying flat on his back, a great cheer rose
up amongst the men. It was then that a dozen more ravenous French
beastmen stepped from the fog. It was the turn of the English to
scream.

“Reload! Reload!” cried a sword-wielding
captain, just before one of the creatures launched itself through
twenty feet of air and came crashing down on top of him with a snarl.
The captain didn’t have time to yell anything further as the
beastman slashed open his throat with five-inch retractable claws,
and then ripped his head from his shoulders.

Further wolf-like monsters appeared in the gloom and
descended upon the English in packs. Their yellow eyes glowed in the
dark as they clawed their way into the British columns and began to
feast. The sounds of rifles filled the battlefield, smoke springing
up in pockets amongst the flailing bodies, but it did little good.
The French devils seemed impervious to lead as they tore open men
like sacks of sand, spilling blood by the gallon. Presented with this
army of Hell, the remaining soldiers did the only thing feasible and
turned to run. The sight of their quarry fleeing emboldened the
French further, and the creatures sprang forward on all fours like
wolves hunting cattle.

Thomas made a dash for the rear but was brought down by
the sudden weight of a Hussar against his back. With the air knocked
from his lungs, he rolled over and desperately tried to fight off his
attacker. The beastman was over seven feet tall, his slavering maw
dripping saliva and other men’s blood across Thomas’ face
as he tried to devour his prey. Foss’ rifle sang out like a
bell, the silver bullet making a beautiful ringing noise as it exited
the muzzle and plowed into the beastman’s chest. The effect was
something astonishing, throwing the creature several feet through the
air to land in a motionless heap in the dust. Foss pulled Thomas to
his feet and dragged him back towards the lines, but three more
creatures barred their way home, reaching out with blood-streaked
talons.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Foss mumbled,
drawing his dagger as the lead beastman rushed forward and went for
his throat.

On the hilltop, Wellington surveyed the butchery with
clinical detachment. He estimated two-thirds of his infantry had been
eviscerated, and within a few minutes the remainder would also be
gone.

“Tell the patriarch and his followers they may
begin their work,” he barked at the bugler, the youth
responding by emitting three short blasts on his instrument.

From beyond the luminous green bonfires came the sound
of low chanting, the Brotherhood of Uclés at last giving voice
to their beliefs. The sounds became a crescendo, rising into a
deafening roar, which echoed down the battlefield towards the lines.
The ground shook briefly, as if in pain, and then from amongst the
corpses of the dead came freshly anguished cries. Wellington smiled
with quiet satisfaction as what remained of his dead began to clamber
back to their feet.